


Heimat

by viceindustrious



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Interrogation, M/M, Nazis, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 02:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: Post season 2 finale - concerning the road Joe Blake must take home after his arrest.





	Heimat

**Author's Note:**

> The torture in this fic is not very graphic but reader discretion is advised just in case! All my love to the usual suspects and, as always, John's cardigan buttons.

“You know I don't know anything,” Joe spits.

He might be angry, hackles raised, but John can tell he's already only a hairs breadth from breaking down completely. He looks drawn, bruise like smudges beneath his eyes. It might have aged him; no rest since Berlin, two hours already strapped down in this room beneath the unforgiving brilliance of a bare yellow bulb in the same rumpled clothes he'd been wearing three days ago. Instead it only serves to highlight what a lost little boy he really is.

John taps a cigarette out of his pack and then offers the carton toward him, though Joe's wrists are cuffed behind his back to the scuffed post of the metal chair he's sitting in, a shape that must slowly be drilling itself into his spine. He waits a moment while Joe glowers at him and then gives a small shrug and tucks the pack back into his pocket.

“There has to be an investigation, Joe.”

“Is that what this is?”

John's mouth ticks up, a twitch of a smile. He inclines his head a little.

“The choices we make have consequence.” He points to Joe's chest. “The choices _you_ make have consequences. Maybe you don't think it's fair-”

“You're damn right it's not!”

“-but you made certain decisions, decisions which led you here, to this room, to that chair.”

Joe speaks with his jaw clenched. “You told me to go to Berlin.”

“Oh, Joe.” John shakes his head. “Is that what you remember?”

He thinks he can hear Joe's teeth squeaking against each other, lips pressed tight and thin. His gaze darts around the room, eyebrows knit together. This dour vibration of defiance might even be a little admirable if John wasn't so sure of the root. There's obviously a part of Joe that still doesn't believe anything _really bad_ could actually happen to him and John supposes it's in exactly such childish terms at that. 

“No, no maybe you didn't _tell_ me to go, but...” Joe trails off and then slumps back in his seat with a disgusted huff, his eyes slide to the side, to the floor – whatever answer he was searching for clearly evades him. John's gaze follows his downward for a moment, he can see Joe's bare feet on the concrete floor twitching restlessly, it must be cold.

“In fact, I recall that I told you I would be happy to countermand the order if it wasn't what you wanted,” John says.

Joe gives a sharp, incredulous bark of laughter. “Oh come the hell on!”

“Isn't that right?”

John picks up a folder from the table and flicks through its contents while Joe sits shaking his head in sullen silence. The pages give a concise, monochrome overview of Joe's history. Stripped down to the skeleton of facts relevant to the Reich it hardly paints a sympathetic portrait. John sighs heavily.

“You really don't understand how fortunate you've been, Joe.” A pause. “I still believe you can make something of yourself here if you learn how to start making the right decisions.”

“What does that mean?” Still angry, the quaver of a plaintive note has entered Joe's voice now. “I don't know what you want. I already told you, you know everything I do.”

“And you wouldn't try and lie to me, would you, Joe?”

He stares at Joe over the top of the folder placidly, no attempt to disguise the candid disappointment in his assessment and Joe tries to hold his gaze, but he blinks too much and his cheeks are mottled with pink indignation, obvious even under the washed out glare of the light. He worries his lip, his eyes drop to the floor again, softening, deferring to John's judgement.

“Please,” Joe says, eyes flicking to John, then back to the floor. “Obergruppenführer.”

John could nearly laugh. He supposes it's almost exactly how he would like Joe to look, contrite and willing to come to heel. The interesting thing is - he doesn't believe Joe even really knows what he's _doing_ ; it comes so naturally to him to show people what they want.

“I'm glad to see you're remembering your manners again, Joe.” He stands up, snapping the case file closed. “Don't worry, we're just following procedure.”

 

John doesn't see Joe again for a good while.

Of course he's monitoring the situation at a distance. He reads the reports, skims over the monotonous and mountainous reams of paper that are produced by the clerk he has sit in on each day's interrogation session and makes sure his officers are clear in how he wishes them them to proceed.

He's careful about the men he uses. He's always made a point to be familiar with the character of anyone who serves under him in any meaningful capacity, keeping abreast of such details is his responsibility and like all his responsibilities as a commanding general, one he takes seriously. It's not difficult to eye a list of names and pick out an appropriate roster.

It's a roster he makes sure is long enough the men can be rotated frequently. Too often for Joe to start to find, in one person, the kind of desperate comfort John knows can flower even in this sort of stony ground. The particular damp sniffling of one interrogator, or the tendency of another to rub his left temple as he listens with apathy to your answers or, even still, the one quick with a fist to the kidneys when you stutter. Any of these things can become flimsy foundation for the mistaken belief a subject is still a human amongst others like himself. Harbours Joe may cling to based on nothing more than the consolation of a familiar face and some idiosyncrasy. The thought of it makes John's brow furrow for the same reason he feels no particular concern about the stamp of anonymous bruises on Joe's body, this must all be pointedly impersonal.

Likewise, he picks for temperament. Unprofessional men do not last long under his command, but it's only normal that some enjoy this work more than others. It can be useful and even the best of men sometimes need that kind of outlet, John understands it himself, but with Joe...he wants them well away.

It's not that he's concerned how they might _hurt_ Joe. Joe hardly hides his misery well and if what a man wants is to watch him suffer, John doubts it would take very much. A soldier with a sadistic streak may not, on a lazy day, even feel the need to bother turning the screws as much as a man detached and thinking only of his duty.

He simply can't stomach the thought of Joe being used so intimately by another man, that exchange of pain for pleasure, even if it's just the invasive penetration of pins beneath his nails and nothing else.

He doesn't worry about the men he chooses.

The transcripts themselves are repetitive by their nature. Joe is right after all, there really is no information he has to give them. The questions are deliberately simple, pointless, repetitive. Easing back in his chair, mug of black coffee steaming slowly on the desk, John can finish flipping through the report before it's even cool enough to drink. The same sorts of questions appear again and again.

What is your father's name? What is your mother's name? What year were you born? Are you employed? Previous occupations? What is the address of your most recent residence? What is your marital status? Do you have any children? Are you a member of the party? Are you a member of any other GNR organization? When did you leave the Hitler Youth? Why was that? How long were you in Berlin?

Every page is peppered with the clipped, efficient abbreviation that indicates: _**[question repeated]** _ as the timestamps jump forward, often by hours. Neat, well documented cruelty, half disguised in a handful of letters and numbers.

John remembers it used to be you could pay a quarter to get into the movie theatre down town and then just sit in there all day, it didn't matter if you came in halfway through the show since the pictures were all on a loop. The first days of Joe's interrogation play out the same way, skip to any page and you'd find a similar script. It's helpful, surprises are not what he's looking for from Joe and he's got enough other work that needs his attention besides.

 

_**Hstuf. L** : Year of birth?_

_**JB** : Damn it, why are you....1935, it's 1935, I don't know what you-_

_**Hstuf. L** : What year?_

_**JB** : 1935_

_**Hstuf. L** : Country of birth?_

_**JB** : Please, you know this, you know this, why do you keep asking me?_

_**Hstuf. L** : Answer the question, Mr Blake._

_**JB** : No! Fuck you! Fuck-_

_**[subject receives encouragement to remain co-operative]** _

 

An open palmed slap across the side of his face the first time probably. John stretches the fingers of his right hand unconsciously. The reports don't mention if Joe gasped, if his eyes flew wide in shock, if the print was vivid against the white of his skin. They mention pleading, wheedling, bargaining. Joe has no real training for such a situation; is unfamiliar with the taste of his own blood or the sick lurch of terror that comes from being subjected to slow, deliberate hurt from another human being.

Each afternoon John closes the folder and taps the pages into tidy order against his desk, three short raps. Nothing changes there. On the paper he knows the word _encouragement_ has invisibly metastasised; from love taps to fists, batons, the electric dynamo.

They would have beaten him for asking to see John if he hadn't instructed them otherwise. After a while though, Joe stops even with that and when every answer has become rote, clockwork perfect, he has them change the questions.

 _What colour were your mothers eyes?_ They ask Joe between rest sessions in his cell where the lights are kept blaring constantly. _What brand of tobacco did your father prefer?_ After forcing amphetamines down his throat and showing him the footage of Martin Heusmann's execution.

The handwriting in the statements they've been having Joe write for the last week, testifying to his father's treason, his father's degeneracy, is deteriorating rapidly. The non-compliance described in the transcripts has changed it's flavour. They don't mention argument, they describe him sobbing.

_**[subject was given several moments to compose himself - corrective measures were taken after hysterical manner continued.]** _

 

He watches one of the tapes after a slightly apologetic report comes through that Joe's shoulder has been dislocated. The full medical evaluation of course covers a litany of smaller outrages, burns, cuts, bruises, nothing particularly noteworthy. The dislocation had been a minor accident, a miscalculation of Joe's own endurance.

On the security footage Joe is dangling strung by his wrists from a hook in the ceiling. The rope is thin enough that even at a distance, through the grain of the camera feed, John can imagine how it would be burning into his wrists. His feet are balanced on their tip toes on a small wooden box.

John recognizes the technique that's been used, a smart and nasty little trick. The officer who hung him up has twisted Joe's arms so his wrist are facing the wrong way. Tied like this, each joint and tendon would be screaming from the pressure and with the desperate flex of Joe's toes it's clear that all his body weight is more or less suspended from the rope. It should feel like a languorous dislocation but monitored closely they would be able to stop just short of that.

Joe, in panic or pain or despair, manages to kick that little wooden box out from under him too fast for anyone to make a difference.

John decides, after watching them cut Joe down; the curl of his body into himself, the dry heaving that comes from shock, that it would not be particularly fair to discipline the men on duty that day for this. They put Joe's arm in a sling and tell him that's why they will not let him shower any more.

 

John's had Erich sit in on these interrogations - just from time to time (it's been a light workload for him since he got out of the hospital despite his daily respectful protestations that he's ready for full duty) and now he's watching John change out of uniform into civilian tack with bright eyed curiosity. He won't ask unless John prompts him and after a moment, without an order, simply starts to help him off with his boots.

“Wait at the end of the corridor, Erich,” he says, buttoning up his cardigan. It's the same forest green he wore on VA day. “I don't want any interruptions.”

“Of course, Obergruppenführer.”

In the cell, Joe lies huddled on a bare, narrow bunk, his whole body turned in close to the whitewashed brick as though he's trying to burrow down out of the cold and light and into the stone, an obliteration of himself. Exhausted enough to sleep maybe, John thinks, peering through the observation window but as soon as he opens the door Joe is scrambling upright like a sick colt.

“Hi, Joe,” he says, closing the door behind him.

Joe's eyes are huge with panic, staring up at him. His face, a little thinner, frames them dramatically. John didn't want him starved (for reasons to himself he well knows and chooses not to dwell on) and his meals have not been reduced, still, he has lost some weight. There are bruises creeping up from under the collar of the grubby prison shirt he's wearing, the collar stained with blood, a dark blue contusion across his jaw that puffs the bottom of his lip. The little finger on his right hand looks badly swollen.

Joe's lips part to draw in a long, shuddering breath. John holds up a finger, _hush,_ and sits down on the bunk beside him. The thin, rubber mat squeaks beneath his weight, it smells strongly of sweat and urine.

“I'm going to ask you some questions.” He puts his hand on the back of Joe's neck. “As long as you tell the truth, they're the last questions you're going to have to answer here, do you understand?”

There are tears forming in Joe's eyes, one hand clasped around his wrist so hard the knuckles are bleaching pale. John knows they've told him this exact same thing so many, many times before. The way he's looking at him is desperately ill with hope.

“It's okay, Joe. All I want you to do is answer yes or no. They're all very simple. You've heard some of them before.”

Joe nods.

“Is your father a traitor, Joe?”

“Yes, sir.” There's no hesitation.

“He deceived you, kept you in the dark, didn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

Joe's skin beneath his hand is cool and clammy to the touch, John brushes his thumb up and down, stroking a gentle rhythm.

“After having abandoned you for so long. Do you think he cared about you, Joe?”

Joe stops breathing for a moment, then exhales unsteadily.

“No, sir.”

“That's very good, Joe. Your mother lied to you as well, didn't she?”

“...Yes, sir.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Alarm bolts through Joe like a rod of iron, he stiffens, jerking his head toward John and John raises his finger again, _hush now Joe,_ this time pressing it lightly against Joe's mouth. The damp rush of Joe's breath is coming fast, his eyes frantic and searching John for instruction.

“Maybe you reminded her of _him_. Maybe she found she couldn't stand to think about what you are, couldn't stand to be around you. If she'd cared about you Joe, wouldn't she have been there? Your poor grades in school, all that trouble you got into with the Youth? Wouldn't she have told you the truth?”

He slips his hand up the back of Joe's head. “Really, Joe, didn't she abandon you too?”

Joe swallows thickly, wincing as though it's concrete lodged glass disappearing down his throat. All the strength of his features make for is a scaffolding to show his absolute vulnerability in this moment. He tries to dip his head but John tightens his grip in the greasy lank strands of his hair and holds him steady.

“Yes, sir,” Joe whispers.

“Do you think either of them loved you, Joe?” he asks

“I...” A long, haunted pause. “No sir.”

He allows Joe to hide his face now, allows him to curl in toward his chest, stroking his unwashed hair as Joe's fingers clutch at the hem of his cardigan. Even that useless little pinky is bending feebly inwards.

“Nicole was, obviously, working for your father. Did she love you, Joe?”

“No, sir.”

“Juliana Crain. Well, she's vanished again. I know you had feelings for her, Joe. I understand. It's funny but the entire time she was staying under our hospitality here she never mentioned you once. I want you to think carefully now, do you really think you matter to her at all?”

It takes Joe longer to answer, though he's not silent – his chest is hiccuping with repressed sobs. When the words do come they're barely audible, strained to a higher register by the tears choking up his throat.

“No, sir.”

“That's right, Joe,” he says. He can feel Joe's tears beginning to soak through his shirt, hot and wet, like blood. “You didn't matter to any of these people, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“But there _is_ someone who does care about you, Joe. Someone who's had your best interests at heart this whole time.”

Joe raises his head from John's shoulder, his eyes are red, his skin blotched and stained with tear tracks. He gives a half aborted shudder that almost seems like denial, is his head shaking _no_ or is he just shaking? His mouth hangs dumbly open, on the brink of an answer maybe but when John's gaze falls to it, then back up to his eyes, Joe _does_ shiver and leans toward him with a pleading look, his bruised lips parting further.

This is deserved.

Joe's mouth is stale as he pushes his tongue inside, but the way Joe gasps as he does it shutters every other thought from his mind. He can taste the tang of old blood and salt and Joe makes a low whimpering noise as he kisses him deeper, pressing his mouth hard against the hot throb of his busted lip.

When he draws back Joe's still clutching at his clothes and his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. John slowly, firmly untangles Joe's fingers from his cardigan and then pushes Joe's fringe back from his face.

“Helen's had the spare bedroom made up for you, Joe,” he says. His voice feels rough and he coughs once to clear it. “Are you ready to go home now?”

“Yes, sir.”


End file.
